


7KPP Week 2019

by AwayLaughing



Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: Asceticism, Astronomy, Clothing, Duty, Family, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Hobbies, Monks, Mother-Daughter Relationship, One Shot Collection, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Siblings, Slice of Life, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-26 16:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18720517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: Pretty self explanatory, my offerings for 7KPP week 2019.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Introductions** || Favourites

Constance hadn’t seen mother for six days because of the new baby. This seemed, she thought, utterly and completely unfair given she never got mother to herself for whole days at a time. So, after breakfast on the seventh day, when they told her she was finally able to see mama again, she could have skipped down the hall. She did not of course, because princesses did not skip.

 

The room they had her in was not mama and papa’s bedroom, but down the hall a short way. It faced the gardens, and that was the first thing Constance really noticed, because the windows were open and it smelled like sunshine and roses. First or not, she barely noticed it however because almost immediately her attention was on mama, who was sitting in bed grinning. Her black hair fell in waves, spilling over the bed covers in a way Constance had never seen before, and she was dressed in comfortable looking bed clothes. In her arms was a bundle of blankets.

 

“Hello my love,” her mother said as the maid closed the door behind them. “Come here,” she pat the bed with her free hand and it took Constance remembering all the lectures from her tutors about propriety not to throw herself onto it at the invitation. Instead she scrambled up with as much dignity as she could. “Oh I’ve missed you,” mama said, kissing Constance’s forehead before pull away slightly. “And I’ve been waiting for this. Constance, please meet Zinnia, your little sister.”

 

Constance looked down at the tiny interloper and tried to hate her. It was hard though, because Zinnia was very tiny and she had chubby little cheeks and right now she was drooling slightly in her sleep. After a moment, Constance gave in and gently stroked the fluffy black hair on Zinnia’s head – it was soft. “Zinnia?” she asked, finally looking back up at her mother.

 

“Yes, it’s a flower, though the gardens don’t have any planet yet,” her mother said, smiling.

 

“It’s pretty,” Constance said, “she’s drooling.”

 

“Yes, even baby princesses drool,” her mother said with a small laugh. “Even  _you_.”

 

“I did not!” Constance said immediately, making mama laugh again. “Are you allowed to leave yet?”

 

“Tomorrow morning,” her mother said. “I wasn’t really supposed to have visitors yet but I couldn’t go another day without my other daughter, or without you knowing your sister. Siblings are important, especially when you’re the eldest.” Constance cocked her head.

“Why?”

 

“Because alas it is another duty, but one full of joy,” her mother said. “You’ll have to look out for her, because she will look up to you more than even me.”

 

Mama was the prettiest, smartest best queen in the whole world, so Constance thought this was unlikely. She said as much, looking dubiously down at Zinnia. “But I’m just a princess.”

 

“You are never just anything, Constance, except yourself,” her mother said. “Never forget that.”

 

“I won’t,” she said, still studying Zinnia. “Does she sleep a lot?”

 

“Yes, because she’s still very new, but she’ll be up and getting into trouble before you know it.”

 

“Princesses aren’t supposed to be trouble,” Constance pointed out, though she had to fight a smile.

 

“Princesses aren’t supposed to be caught,” her mother said with a smile of her own, one that made her eyes glint. “But it’s true you shouldn’t cause too much, and none that threaten our duty. It will be a while yet before she knows the rules however.”

 

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Constance said, “and I won’t yell about it either.”

 

“No? There you go, being a big sister already. You’re a natural,” her mother said. “Now, your tutors know you’ll be a little late but they’ll never forgive me if I keep you over long. Give us a kiss, my love.”

 

Constance did as she was told, first mama and then, very careful to avoid any drool, Zinnia. “Bye mama, bye Zinnia. It was nice meeting you,” she said, curtsying before stepping back into the hall. The maids had made themselves scarce, and after a quick look around Constance could see they weren’t waiting on her. With one last blown kiss she quietly closed the door, and after another double check for anyone watching she smiled to herself, picked up her skirts, and skipped.


	2. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Hobbies** || **Worldbuilding**

Isadore stepped carefully as he made his way up the steep hill leading away from the monastery, fighting not to shiver lest he shake himself right off the path. The rough spun cloth that served as the monastery uniform did not due much against the cold northern winds, the broad sleeves letting the wind funnel right into the core. Idly he made a note to himself to get some twine to tie them down, now that winter was on its way. This high up the winter winds drowned out even the sea, a whistling that sounded oddly lonely.

 

Or maybe it wasn’t so odd, he thought turning to look. The monastery stood at the very edge of the sea, far below, the only man made anything for miles. Otherwise it was grey stone and sea, which was capped in angry white foam. Otherwise there was no movement, the rest of the monastery ensconced in their personal evening routines as the sun slunk below the horizon, casting sullenly pale colours behind it.

 

Which meant he really ought to hurry. If he was going to travel this way in the dark, he’d like it to only be one direction. Thus he traipsed along the edge of night – if one could call clinging to a cliff as they traversed a long neglected goat path up a nearly vertical cliff face traipsing. Finally reaching the top he collapsed, sucking in air. Already he’d made this journey twice, but he did not find it easier. He supposed he would eventually, given he was here for the rest of his life.

 

After two months, the thought had lost some sting. Or so he told himself.

 

Knowing he needed the last of the light to get set up, Isadore didn’t let himself linger – nor mope. Instead he made his way to the nearest rock, smiling when he saw his little cover was still in place over the hole it held sentry over. Taking it off, he could barely make out of the wrapped box within. Easing it out, he anxiously unwrapped it from the waterproof cover. Inside, everything was just as he left it, and thankfully undamaged by vermin or water.

 

“Many thanks, Great One,” he muttered as he quickly set about assembling his little spy glass.

 

He knew from the outside the set up was odd, but when your lifestyle demanded you own nothing, liberties must be taken. In truth, he’d been able to part with most things with more than a modicum of grace. After all, the monastery had books. Admittedly, largely very dull ones, but books all the same, and Isadore had never been overly invested in knick knacks. An empty room was a tidy soul, after all. Even rugs were surely superfluous with the light of the Great Divine warming your toes from within.

 

But he could not part with the stars.

 

In a perfect world, Isadore would not be here. Instead, he would be ensconced in the Royal Observatory, spending his mornings dosing and his afternoons learning, and nights watching the cosmos from the grandest telescope in the Kingdoms. Alas, this was not a perfect world for he had two older brothers, and two sisters who had to be dowered, and a sadly limited family estate. He supposed he ought to at least be thankful he hadn’t been sent to the army like Raoul, except he was fairly certain the army approved of spyglasses, and surely the navy would have accepted him as a navigator.

 

So instead he was here, seated on top of a grassy plateau near the Skalt border. At least the stars, so far from the bustle of any cities, were perfectly numerous, and the quiet was truly soothing. Less soothing was being some sort of rebel just for love of the universe the Great Divine had created, but what could one do other become the kingdom’s least exciting rebel.

 

Those thoughts and many more kept him company through the hours. A few times, he yearned for paper and charcoal and light, but so far he had not figured out how to smuggle a lantern with him, and besides in the frigged night his fingers were hardly up to the task. He would ask mother for gloves, when he was next allowed to send a letter, he decided after what he thought was the two hour mark had him shoving his hands under his arms in a bid for warmth. And extra socks.

 

He was wondering if a scarf was pushing the limits of asceticism as he re-homed his spyglass in its hidey hole and started the perilous trek back to the monastery. While the path wasn’t maintained, the monastery having given up on the goat farming business in favour of sea-based income, it wasn’t particularly dangerous on its own. It was simply that in the dark gravity proved to be an over-helpful aid in any descent. A few times he tripped and spent a few feet in a heart stopping jog, but eventually he reached the blessedly – literally in this case – solid ground of the monastery.

 

As usual, the only light left at this time of night was outside the main doors, which were also the only doors unlocked. Officially, this was so any lost souls could find and enter the monastery when they were in need, but in truth Isadore thought it was simply tradition. They were so very far out of the way that only possible way any soul could happen upon them was intentionally.

 

Unusually, there was a person next the firelight, a black shape bent over something. For a moment Isadore’s heart stopped. He wasn’t supposed be out here, after all. Like a good little monk he was supposed to be curled up on his hard bed shivering under his spare blanket. Whosoever this was, however, was also not meant to be out. And besides, the rest of the doors were locked and the windows were far too small to crawl through. Waiting him out did not appeal, so after a moment Isadore gathered his courage and stepped forward.

 

Brother Matrin startled like a sleeping cat, looking up and immediately flailing. It ended with his arms shoved into his sleeves and the two men staring at one another, the firelight turning startled faces into something more ghastly.

 

“Brother Isadore,” brother Matrin said after a handful of heartbeats.

 

“Brother Matrin,” Isadore said cautiously, politely ignoring the hastily hidden letter peaking out from Matrin’s sleeve.

 

“Nice walk was it?” the brother asked in the tones of one mugging for reality.

 

“Yes thank you,” Isadore said.

 

“Very good,” Matrin said. “You best get your rest then, it’s only four hours to morning prayers.”

 

“Of course, have a good evening brother Matrin,” Isadore said.

 

“You as well, grace be with you.”

 

“And always with you,” Isadore echoed and carefully slipped into the monastery. Inside no fires burned, save for the kitchen hearth, which went all day and all night and was certainly a thrilling siren. After a moment of hesitation he headed towards it. Inside was as silent as anywhere, only the luckiest monk in the monastery present, brother Geralt, head cook. He slept in a cot by the fire to make sure it never went out. Quietly Isadore crept closer, until he could feel the heat. He just needed a few minutes, after all, to chase the cold out and then he would harry off to his quarters.

 

That was what he told himself as he eased into a sitting position, and it was some unknowable time later when he felt a hand on his head.

 

“Don’t you have your own bed?” a sleepy voice asked him.

 

“My bed is made of ice, Geralt,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

 

“Hng,” Geralt said. “Poke the fire back to life and get in.”

 

Isadore did not need more invitation than that. A few gentle prods brought the hearth back to a gentle flickering from it’s deeply banked state. Then it was just clambering over Geralt’s none too thin form onto the cot. The following negotiations for space were made largely via elbow, but eventually they managed to fit the two of them on the decidedly one person surface area. It meant Isadore was pressed against the cool outside wall, but with the fire nearby and Geralt’s body heat, it was certainly better than his room.

 

“If the abbott finds us he’ll skin us alive,” Isadore noted as sleep slowly crept over them. Geralt snorted.

 

“He can certainly try.”

 

“Well maybe without my skin I wouldn’t get so chilled.”

 

“Don’t test that theory,” Geralt advised. “And go the Hells to sleep.”

 

“Mmkay,” Isadore said, and buried his cold nose into his friends’ shoulder. In his mind he could see the vast stretch of the sky, punctuated by those cool little lights that held untold stories. Their remoteness wasn’t daunting, not when it meant he could bring them with him anywhere. Even here, at the ends of the earth and a home for forgotten things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This my Pirate MC, Noa's, father, about two years before he meets her mother Pinna. It's sort of barebones on both the hobbies part and the worldbuilding part, but writing isadore turned out to be a gleeful experience so I'm not too fussed about sharing this with everyone.


	3. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Pippa of Corval gets a minor wardrobe adjustment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ambitions & Dreams** || **Fashion**

It was rare to see Roshan in anything other than white. It was rarer still to see her in anything warm toned – she preferred greys and blues when she did venture into the world of saturation. As such, Pippa did not think anything of it when she stepped into her mother’s sitting room to find it festooned in fabrics of every type, but absolutely not a hint of colour.

 

“Updating your wardrobe, mother?” she asked, noticing the lack of tailor at the moment. Within the rooms she could hear puttering however, and after a moment Jessa’s familiar face appeared, the rest of her obscured by the sheet of fabric in her hand. Red fabric. “Goodness,” Pippa said, crossing the floor to look into her mother’s boudoir. Sure enough, just as the sitting room was a sea of ghosts, the bedroom looked like someone’s abstract recreation of a particularly gruesome murder. Frowning she turned back to Jessa. “Has someone died?”

 

Jessa’s lips thinned at the question, and Pippa had the sudden fear she’d forgotten someone important. “It’s the twentieth anniversary of your father’s death,” Jessa said. “Your mother insisted. She went off to find you actually.”

 

“Oh,” Pippa said, gaze dipping to the cloth in Jessa’s hands. It looked like linen.

 

Life in the Inner Courts was a game of rules, some of them conflicting, which required one to think creatively and act decisively. As such, Pippa was never that keen on creating more for herself. Still, as a rule she stayed away from white and red – and of course black – except for funerals proper. Most people assumed it was an affectation to set her apart from her mother. In all truth, Pippa just thought dressing like you were in perpetual mourning was a bit depressing.

 

She had never said as much to her mother though, because she knew what Roshan mourned was not a person. That the loss she marked was something she relived daily.

 

“I told her you wouldn’t like it,” Jessa said.

 

“I don’t mind,” Pippa said, “I suppose it would be a good thing to mourn father. It’s been a while since I visited his grave.”

 

“You never knew him, there’s more to mourn in that than him,” Jessa said bluntly. Pippa looked up, surprised, but did not see any derision in Jessa’s dark eyes, nor the quirk of her red-painted mouth. “Make no mistake, your father was a good man. But you never had him, and so for you the tragedy is not one of loss.”

 

“I see,” said Pippa. It wasn’t as if she’d never had her moments. When fathers came back from some meaningless campaign, sun baked and grinning, arms wide so their daughters could run to them. When someone rushed into a parlour armed with a letter and gift from far off lands. When a friend got married and her father watched on beaming with pride. Things she had never had, and never would have. But for the most part, it did not bother her. “Surely she can’t think I need _this_ many dresses.”

 

Jessa didn’t laugh, because she never did, but her smile deepened, just a touch. “No, she is indeed getting ready for the new season. All the reds are because of that feud with Lady Vianna.”

 

And just like that, the strange mood that usually followed talk of her father lifted, and Pippa laughed.

 

“Is it really?” she asked, “don’t tell me this is because of her royal highness’ dress last week?”

 

“What else but? Apparently warm jewels are the name of the game this season, and you know Vianna would never be caught dead in orange.”

 

“And anything to be a minor inconvenience,” Pippa said, still amused. A moment later the door behind her opened, and she turned at the whisper of skirts on the floor to see her mother. As bleak as she found her mother’s fashion sensibilities, Pippa was more than willing to admit Roshan worked it. Tall and lean, the white offset her dark hair and skin, and made her eyes impossibly blue.

 

“Plotting, are we?” Roshan asked, apparently having heard the last remark. Pippa smiled, crossing the floor to kiss her mother’s cheek – raising on her tiptoes to do so.

 

“Discussing your new fabric collection,” Pippa said. “Is the tailor coming in today?”

 

“A few minutes, thus my hunt for you,” her mother said. “Enough time to tame this, I think,” she said, reaching out to gently tug one of Pippa’s curls.

 

“I suppose,” Pippa said with a sigh. “Though I just got it looking nice.”

 

“We can do a braid and pin it up,” Jessa said, always the sensible one. A snap of her fingers brought the maids who had been seated by the window doing embroidery forward. Not needing the direction, Pippa hurried herself over to the vanity, and let the two women go at her. She barely even winced when, at the end, a small army of pins were put into place to keep the twin braids wrapped around one another and off her back – and thus out of the tailor’s way. They needn’t have rushed, because Salma took another twenty minutes to appear, at which point Pippa was begrudgingly ensconced in some paper work.

 

“Oh blessed be my saviour,” Pippa said when she heard the familiar clack of Salma’s shoes on the floor. No matter the fashions, the tailor never set aside her leather boots with their shiny brass buckle. Pippa had never asked after the affectation, though she wondered.

 

Salma snorted. “Not my usual greeting,” she said, looking around. “Are you starting a store, my lady?”

 

“No, but I do need a new wardrobe,” Roshan said.

 

“Aye, you and half the court,” Salma said in tones of both derision and glee. “I’m going to assume you are only need of a few dresses, lady Pippa, unless you’ve embraced your mother’s monochrome ways.”

 

“If I do, I shall surely be monochrome in pink,” Pippa said. “But no, I believe I’m in need of just one dress today.”

 

“Just the one, yes,” her mother comfirmed.

 

“We’ll start with you, then,” Salma said. She didn’t even have to gesture for her three attendants to get to work – they all hurried over to Pippa as a unit, armed with measuring chords, a stool, slate and chalk. Pippa’s maids had long since stripped her down to the not-quite bare essentials, so there was no need to fuss with stripping her down first.

 

“Good afternoon,” Pippa said, stepping onto the stool, for all the good it really did. “Salma’s been keeping you busy?”

 

The tallest girl, who had a bright golden collection of curls corralled into a tail and eyes that very nearly matched in colour, grinned. “There six of us when we left the shop,” she said.

 

“A dangerous business, tailoring in the dawn of the new season,” Pippa said, raising her arms without them even asking. The whole process was familiar enough that she barely paid any attention, simply moving however she was prompted. When they finished she hopped off the stool and passed the slate off to Salma, who gave them a fresh one in turn and pulled Pippa into the bedroom.

 

“You and your mother could not be less opposite if you tried,” Salma said as they entered. “I understand this is for you father?”

 

“Yes,” Pippa said, because there wasn’t much to say to the first part. She was right. Roshan was one long, lean line without many curves. Pippa was short and erred towards the round. “He was Revairin.”

 

“Thus the red,” Salma said. “If she wants me to use all this in a gown you are certainly going to be a sight.”

 

Pippa laughed. “I believe she’s making a point,” she said, “and besides I make it a rule to never wear velvet.”

 

“More than reasonable. Are you doing a Revairin style, then?”

 

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Pippa said honestly. “Should it be?”

 

Salma eyed her, and eyed the slate. “I think no,” she said. “I understand the styles are changing and the Revairin princess is quite petite herself, but I don’t think long trains work in your favour. Though,” her dark eyes flicked to Pippa’s head, “I suppose your hair might offset it.”

 

Pippa laughed. “Something traditional then?” She’d grown up wearing what her mother liked, after all and though she herself preferred the larger skirts of the current styles, her mother was rarely found in more than one petticoat, preferring something close the silhouette of her own family.

 

“You’ll stick out, the latest style is introducing a cage,” Salma said.

 

“Oh that’s how they’re getting their skirts so wide,” Pippa said, recalling the current styles of Constance’s personal ladies.

 

“Yes, the hope is for a wider silhouette with fewer petticoats,” Salma said. “They are quite cooling, actually, but I don’t know how much wider we can go on you, before you start to get the swimming in fabric effect.”

 

“Well if you don’t know then I can’t begin to guess,” Pippa said, smiling.

 

“Flatterer,” Salma said. “That won’t get you out of making a decision.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pippa, who really quite liked dresses, said. She gestured to today’s clothing, draped on the bed and not currently on her body. She could picture the fashion setters of the court in her mind’s eye – the empress consort never one to bow to the fashions of those younger than her was unlike to widen her skirts a millimetre beyond what they had been for the last two decades. Constance, forever trying to marry Arlish and Corvali styles was also on a Jiyeli kick at the moment. “It will have to be silk,” she said as if there had been any other options.

 

“Of course,” Salma said, studying Pippa’s dress. “Let’s put this back on you and we can decide, but I think we can have cages made that will fit under your current skirts. You’re lucky jewel tones are back in.”

 

“This pastel phase _has_ been a trial,” Pippa admitted, slipping into the first petticoat. Just because she rarely had to dress herself did not mean she couldn’t. “If I never see peach again, it shall be too soon.”

 

Salma laughed again, deigning to help when Pippa reached the outer layer of clothing. Afterwards she prowled around Pippa, tugging here and there, prodding at other places. Only when she was done did she call out a name – Farra. A moment later the auburn haired assistant with a purple birthmark peaking out from her collar hurried in.

 

“Shorter skirt,” Salma said without preamble, scratching something onto her own slate. “One inch. Structured bodice.”

 

“Are we lengthening the sleeves?”

 

“No, keep those as are,” Salma said. “We’re keeping the silhouette, are you planning to wear this around?”

 

“No, it seems a bit macabre,” Pippa said.

 

“Two petticoats,” Salma said in response. She finished her sketch – Pippa’s peak showed a slightly stiffer looking version of her current wardrobe. At least they weren’t delving back into the corset. They were hot. Salma shooed her away. “No peaking.”

 

“Don’t I get to finally know what I’m going to be wearing,” Pippa asked, teasing slightly. “I am nearly twenty.”

 

“And still unmarried,” Salma said.

 

“I’m waiting,” Pippa said easily. Salma, who was probably fifty and likely had been married for over thirty of those years, raised an eyebrow as if she couldn’t imagine why or what for. “The Summit is in two years,” she said, “I intend to campaign, once the emperor declares how many open slots there are.”

 

That seemed to actually startle Salma a little, who probably did not think much about the Summit one way or another, being neither noble nor anywhere near the age of a delegate. “Are you now?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Pippa said, “and I’m going to go.”

 

“And do what?”

 

Pippa shrugged, even though a proud smile tugged at her lips. “Amaze, of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is like, barely about any of the prompts but a little about all of them so it counts! Honestly I just started typing, and this is what we got.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! An itty start the week, because I wrote this at 3AM. I figured this was a good start though short or not. And a bonus - I’ll even introduce myself.
> 
> I’m AwayLaughing, you can call me Away. I’ve been in the fandom a few years now, but I’m quiet and this week is usually my most active because I can get a bit shy. I have a lot of MCs to showcase, and hopefully I can get a good number into the various prompts this year.
> 
> Also zippy titles are too hard this year, so it's bare bones titling from here on out.


End file.
